


you know I can paint the world

by regrettably



Category: C-Clown, DPR LIVE (Musician), dpr - Fandom
Genre: M/M, yeah man idk either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 00:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14461482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regrettably/pseuds/regrettably
Summary: For Christian, it's all about the visuals.  No matter what he's doing.





	you know I can paint the world

**Author's Note:**

> me @ myself: hahahahahaaa dude what the fuck
> 
> ...yo follow me on twitter [@rgrttbly](https://twitter.com/rgrttbly) on this shit account I just made if you wanna talk about khh garbage for some reason

 

“Bro, what?” Dabin’s eyelids tug upwards just a sliver, his jaw clenches and relaxes, “More like this?”

 

Clenches, relaxes again.  Clenches, relaxes. Clench, relax.

 

“Nah, man, it’s more like…” Christian shifts his hips, the couch leather creaks, “...like, it’s about angles, and shit.”

 

Dabin laughs.  It’s almost lost between the spatter of the rain leaving dust-dirty veins down Christian’s windows and the low drone of whatever action movie they’d decided on back before this had become _this_.

 

How this even happened isn’t all that clear.

 

Just like the skyline, obscured under sheets of water that block out the mountains in the distance and the highrises on the other side of the river and reduce the usual jumble of jutting steeples and glass and brick thirty-something floors below to a muddled daze of light, it’s a blur.

 

A blur that started with a real attempt to hash out some new ideas that amounted to a whole lot of nothing, somewhere in the middle had a singularly friendly offer for Dabin to just crash here for the night because “Man, it’s fuckin’ pissing out there,” and then most recent in Christian's memory featured a mention of a Hennessy and coke with some background netflix because what else were they going to do, really?

 

Now there’s just the dregs of a bottle of Absolut on the coffee table and the stale linger of synthetic-sweet vapour in the air and the dull buzz from Christian’s phone, lost somewhere between the couch cushions and making his ass vibrate every couple of minutes.

 

But the exact sequence of how this happened doesn’t matter much because it’s become _this_ again; Dabin’s bony knees sunk into the carpet under Christian’s feet.

 

“I mean, I get you, just… it’s…” Dabin smiles, in a way, spit-shined lips splitting lopsided as he flexes the muscles of his jaw, “...’kay, how’s this?”

 

Dabin’s mouth parts wide, sucking Christian back in, and it’s good.  For real, it is.

 

The feeling itself, Dabin’s vodka-loose throat taking him deep, slick, wicked hot?  

 

Fantastic.

 

The visual, though…  

 

It’s good.  Great, even.  Like, sure, Dabin looks amazing down there.  Always does, with his slack jaw and heavy lids and sweat-styled hair nuzzled all cozy between Christian’s thighs.

 

But it could be better.

 

The focus just isn’t right: it should be less on the the pair of glasses stuck with dribbled mixer to the coffee table, less on the remote jabbing Christian in the thigh, less on the overturned slippers forgotten in the shag rug and more on Dabin.  More on the contrast between jawline and neck, more on the strain of those burning lips, more on the bounce of the adam’s apple, up and down, up and down, up and down to match each bob of his head.

 

“S’good, but…” Christian’s hand moves almost of its own accord from the couch, hooks tentative at the junction between jawbone and ear, “...is it cool if I…?”

 

Dabin nods and pulls back, his voice sounds like tipsy honey. “Yeah, like, you’re the director here.  Tell me what to do.”

 

Dabin’s skin is hot, clammy under Christian’s fingers.  He presses at Dabin’s jaw and Dabin goes right along with him.  He’s easy, willing; tilts just like Christian wants so the flicker of the television accentuates the thin curve of his neck and the juts of his cheekbones.

 

“...well?” Dabin blinks up clouded eyes while Christian studies exactly how the slant of his jaw changes the dip of his cupid’s bow.

 

“It’s... an improvement.”

 

Dabin half-raises an eyebrow and goes back down.

 

“Ah, fuck…”

 

Now this really is better.

 

The focus has changed entirely; every gunshot and explosion from the TV reflects in wet smears of light on Dabin’s eyelids and backlights him with some sort of fuzzy adrenaline-fused halo.  Makes him look surreal. Equal parts sleazy, sexy, ethereal. Like something out of a gin-induced dream.

 

And now Dabin can do more, go further.  The tip of his nose just barely bumps up against Christian’s abdomen and every time he takes him that deep, in one long languid draw, Christian watches his nostrils flare and his chin tremble from the effort.

 

But it’s still not enough.  Christian wants to see it all.

 

“Could I just, like…?”  Christian leans forward, slides the hand guiding Dabin’s jaw up into his hair, “...like, just let me…”

 

Dabin doesn’t hesitate, just nods as much as he can with his mouth that full.

 

So Christian digs his fingers in, grabs a damp handful of hair and pulls Dabin right where he wants him.  Dabin moans in this way that one day they just have to record because nothing else can possibly ever sound _that_ good and then Christian can see everything: the sweat beading on Dabin’s forehead, the moisture collecting on his eyelashes, the drool leaking from the corners of his stretched lips.

 

Everything.  

 

Christian tightens his grip so he can take a second to just enjoy the view and Dabin literally whimpers and it’s right.  The right scene. The perfect shot.

 

 _This_ is perfect, whatever this even is.

 

The what of this is more confusing than the how; it’s not something they ever plan.  Or something they ever talk about. Or something they ever really even think about.

 

But it keeps happening.  It’s a messy makeout after a couple of rips in LA and the odd post-filming handie to burn off some excess hype and the sweat-soaked memory of being in Dabin three fingers deep on a sweltering Greek night.  

 

And honestly, Christian loves it.

 

Because, hell, Dabin loves it too.  He’s got a hand shoved down the front of his sweats and he’s bucking up furious into his own first and it’s plain that he loves, loves, loves it.  He loves being the visual, the center of attention, the image projected. And there’s nothing wrong with that because he should be. Everything he does, everything _they_ do, is just so damn pleasing to the eyes.

 

This tableau in particular, knuckles twisting into dark locks and lips sinking far enough to brush sloppy kisses on pelvis, could be one of their greatest works yet.

 

And Christian can picture how this scene will someday segue seamlessly into the one he envisages as next: Dabin on his hands and knees on Christian’s mattress with his baggy plaid pushed up his back and his jeans around his ankles and Christian pounding him from behind to the sweet, sweet rhythm of their newest track.  

 

Just that image of Dabin all stretched out and filled up on his sheets while watching him do this, suck him so deep spit pools on his wobbling bottom lip, is enough for Christian to nearly bring this episode to a close.  

 

Except Dabin’s got to be the one to finish it.  Because he’s the one that’s front and center in the camera in Christian’s head.

 

All Dabin has to do is open his eyes and look up, give Christian an idle stare with dilated pupils brimming and it’s over.

 

“Oh shit, gonna--”

 

Dabin pulls back just enough and Christian streaks his face white just like the rain outside streaks his windows.

 

Even that’s picture-worthy, the milky pale contrast against Dabin’s warm skin.  And Dabin gives them the perfect finale when he jerks himself to the end and throws his head back and cums mouth gaping between Christian’s legs, creamy rivulets oozing over his cheekbones.  In that moment, seeing that, watching _that_ , Christian’s breath catches in his throat.  Because he’s not just seeing everything now. He’s shot straight past that; he sees everything and _beyond_.  He gets a glimpse of infinite possibilities, endless ways he can show Dabin to the world as Dabin’s head slumps forward and Christian’s bare thigh keeps him up.

 

“I’ve got it.” Christian says, chest heaving, heart racing, running fingers through Dabin’s drenched hair, “Like, for our next project.”

 

He sees the whole video in his mind.  A crown of light, grainy backgrounds, crisp details, water, heat, Dabin’s hair, Dabin’s lips, Dabin’s eyelids.  Flashes of brilliance against muted scenery. Highlights on sunkissed skin. An explosive finish.

 

Christian grins.

 

“It’s going to be fuckin’ fire.”

 

“Aight, cool.”  Dabin slurs, lifts his head just enough so Christian can tell he’s smiling, “I know you’ve got this.”

 

Does he ever.  He’s just got so much to work with.

 

 


End file.
